To Follow the Rogue
by Lilith-Hoshi
Summary: Charle Magnier II was the son of a door-to-door salesman. Or so he thought, until he's asked to take his father's place in the RED Company as their top spy. Heavy re-imagining of TF2 universe, T for violence and language
1. Loss

**To Follow the Rogue**

by Lilith-Hoshi

**Chapter One: Loss**

"Go! Go! Go! Go!" a shrill voice yelled from the other side of the fortress. Charle Magnier gritted his teeth, crushing the cigarette he had casually hanging from his mouth. He ignored the taste of ashes and flipped his butterfly knife out from his pocket. The BLU team's scout was leading a charge into the fort – and from the sounds of the other feet, he had two companions to help him. Heavy footsteps as well as lighter, more nimble ones – heavy and sniper. Though now that Charle thought about it, probably the lighter one was another scout. Betrayal, perhaps? He never did trust that drug-addict of a scout the company had hired.

Charle tapped a button on his watch and stood still. The familiar chill of the invisibility device doing its magic on him didn't even bother him anymore. He had done this for too long, but the pay was great and the adrenaline rushes he got from it were crazy. So as he heard the heavy's steps go down the corridor that led to the hallway he stood in, he grinned sinisterly and tossed the lifeless cigarette from his mouth and spat the old ashes out on the floor, his knife poised to strike.

The heavy came tumbling down the hallway, yelling "FOR MOTHER COUNTRY!" Charle spun around as the heavy ran past the cloaked spy and lunged for his back with his knife. He chuckled as he felt the blade sink into the heavy's fleshy back and heard him scream for his mother, then fell to the floor with Charle's knife still in his back. Charle retrieved his knife and flipped it shut, pushing it back into his jacket pocket. A clean kill, just how he preferred it. He congratulated himself for his good work.

Then he remembered the other two. He took his gun from his other pocket and polished it slightly with his glove, always one for keeping appearances. He knew he couldn't afford to assume the others would take care of the other two.

Suddenly a shout came from behind him. Charle spun around, only to see the BLU scout he had heard yelling only moments before land on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Benji McNoughton, the sniper, touched the rim of his hat, then blew the smoke away from the barrel of his high-powered sniper rifle. Charle nodded back, grateful for the save. The sniper spat on the ground, his typical farewell sign to city people. He never talked to people from the city unless he absolutely had to.

Charle watched Benji slink away. Then a realization struck him – there was another one still in the fort. He pressed the button on his watch and turned into the hallway cautiously, trying not to make any audible noise. The spy had full knowledge that the watch made him invisible, but it didn't make his smell disappear or his noise mute. He wasn't worried about his smell – ashes were a common smell in both forts. Charle rounded another corner and pulled out his gun. He took in a breath...

But then he felt metal sink into his back and through him. "Such an amateur mistake. Let your watch run low." Charle stared at the ground, his eyes wide and at his watch. No bars on the screen. _Damn it_, he should have gotten the newer one they offered him…

"Bonjour, monsieur."

Charle fell and felt wet ground beneath him. Oh god, it was his _blood_ beneath him. Everything blurred together, like paint in water, like the kind he had helped his son paint with when he was young…

_His son_. _Oh god_, he was going to die and _his son_ wouldn't know why…

_Please forgive me, Charle, _he thought. His eyes rolled back into his head, and soon he felt nothing.

* * *

Charle Magnier I died in a pool of his own blood. Charle Magnier II slept in his bed.

"Honey! Time for breakfast!"

_Ugh._ A fresh graduate out of high school and yet he still felt like he was being forced to go back again when he heard that line. Why his mother insisted on a breakfast every day, he didn't know. Maybe it was to keep the illusion that they were a normal family. _Whatever_. Dad had been home rarely for the last twelve years since he got promoted at that company he worked at. Business travels, delayed flights, promises made and broken. Charle was used to it by now. He opened his eyes and sat up slowly in bed. His muscles ached, even after getting a long night of sleep. Charle ignored the pain and shuffled out of bed, scratching his boxers. He left his room and descended the stairs in a zombielike manner, his feet dragging on the carpet.

_I hate mornings._

"Come on, sleepyhead! I made pancakes!" Charle's mother had been waiting for him in the living room. "And put on a shirt or something. It's disgusting to get out of bed without a shirt on in front of your own mother."

"I'll put on a shirt after I eat." Charle went to the pan and flipped some pancakes onto a plate. He tossed a little maple link sausage onto his plate and went to the table, grabbing a fork on the way from the utensil drawer. His mother snorted in disgust and made herself a plate, then followed him to the table. Charle took a seat and propped up his chin in his hand and poked at the pathetic little sausage with the fork. Charle's mother wasted no time in cutting up her scrambled eggs and pancakes, humming a merry little number from some old movie she liked.

"Why didn't you get any eggs?"

"They're disgusting." Another prod at the sausage. Charle really didn't feel like eating. His back ached too much.

"They're healthy for you."

"That's why they're disgusting." He took his knife and cut his pancakes in half as he heard his mother sigh in exasperation.

"You really ought to eat those eggs. You need some meat on those scrawny bones, too."

He stared at his bare pancakes. Then Charle looked up from his plate – the first time he had done so since breakfast started. "Where's the syrup?"

"Right here." She handed the plastic container they had used forever as their maple syrup container. It was microwavable, easily refillable, and it was from the year Charle was born. Some things just lasted forever. He poured the syrup onto his pancakes and put the container to the side of his plate.

"Well, Charle, I've been meaning to talk to you about getting a job."

Charle looked up at his mother. _Oh no_. She was going to make him pay rent, wasn't she? He knew she didn't take a liking to his decision to not go to college. It wasn't that he wasn't _smart_ enough to go to college. He just didn't want to pay ridiculous amounts of money to learn something that he probably already knew in the first place. Of course, to Charle's mother this was like committing first-degree murder, and was sure acting like he had murdered something all right – his career.

"Why?" was all he could ask.

"Why?" She glared at him with fiery, angry eyes. "If you aren't going to go make something out of yourself and go to college, then you might as well either get out of the house or pay rent. I'm no longer obligated to give you a roof over your head for free. Why, if your father knew…"

_Psh_. Dad. Like he would ever know. He barely ever cared for his own son. It'd been six months since they last heard from him – and that was just a note attached to that month's paycheck. Sometimes he left notes on the paychecks, if he ever got off his ass for a moment at his supposedly super-busy job to write anything. The man was practically a ghost in the household.

Charle ate his food quietly, ignoring his mother all the while. He learned long ago that if he let her ramble on long enough, eventually she'd get bored and shut up. Same thing went for his teachers. They all claimed he had behavior problems. He didn't have a problem, _they_ had the problem. His old school had a bunch of assholes for a staff that didn't care about him. Only people they cared about were the ones on the football team. Everybody else could jump off a cliff.

Why were people more interested in helping only those that would benefit them? Why did some people deserve more help and not others? And why did the ones who _did_ want to help go about it all the wrong way? Charle really didn't get adults.

Of course, he was one now, technically. Eighteen years old with a high school diploma and a car. He could do whatever the hell he wanted to do, except be somebody that people cared about, which was all that _mattered_ in life. Either you kiss everyone's ass and give them fake compliments, or you kick their ass and tell them they're shit. Charle chose the second option, because he didn't enjoy telling people lies to make them his friends. If he had to lie to people to get them to be their friend, then they're shit, and they deserve to get their ass kicked. That was the way Charle thought.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Charle blinked. His mother sighed.

"You weren't. Listen, I'm giving you a deadline by the end of the month to get a job, or I'll kick you out."

He rolled his eyes. _Whatever._ She wouldn't do that to her precious little boy. He knew she didn't have the heart to do that.

Charle scraped the remaining scraps of food from his plate into the trash can, then put the plate into the sink to be washed later.

Before he left the kitchen, he looked back at his mother over his shoulder. She was staring out the window, a faraway look in her eyes, and muttered something – too quiet and too low for him to hear.

He turned back around and walked up the stairs. He just wanted a nap.

* * *

"Well hell."

He took a puff of his fat cigar and blew a smoke ring out from his mouth. Seven men all clad in black tuxedos stood in front of him.

The CEO of the RED company sighed. "I never expected for Charle to go."

One of the men stepped forward. Five o' clock shadow, sunglasses. "He was one of my friends, sir," he said with a slight Texan drawl.

The biggest one of the tuxedos began to sob. "He was good man!" he bellowed in a heavy Russian accent. The one next to him patted his shoulder in an attempt to calm him, but he just kept on crying.

"He was everyone's friend." The CEO sighed and rubbed his balding head, then took another puff of his cigar. "These are desperate times. We need all the operatives we can get. And you…You're the best team we got. And now we lost the best spy. We're sure as hell not going to find anyone like him in a hundred years."

Big Russian man cried still, the others consoling him. Texan sunglasses scratched his chin. "Well… I know of somebody."

CEO cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"He had a son." Sunglasses passed a photo of a teenaged kid with acne, brown hair and bags under his eyes. The CEO picked up the photo and analyzed it closely.

"Hell…Looks almost like him. Except for the acne, I could swear that he was cloned." The CEO sat back in his chair and inhaled yet again from his cigar. "Interesting…"

* * *

_Knock, knock._

Charle rubbed his eyes and groaned. "Five more minutes, mom."

_Knock, knock._

Charle looked up at the clock. Three-forty-five. Who the hell knocks at three in the morning? A drunk, likely.

_Knock, knock._

Then again, no drunk would knock that persistently. "Alright, alright, I'm getting up."

_Knock, knock._

Charle threw on a shirt and pulled up some dirty jeans. He stumbled down the stairs and miraculously somehow did not get injured.

_Knock, knock._

Charle opened the door. A man in a red military uniform and a helmet that obscured his eyes stared at him. Charle stared back.

"Who the hell are you?"

The man snorted. "Who the hell am I? I was feelin' sorry for ya, maggot. But now that yer cursin' in the face of a soldier, I'm not so sorry any—"

A hand clapped onto the soldier's shoulder. It belonged to a man with strange-looking goggles and a construction hardhat on his head. "Now, John, be nice to the boy. It's three in the mornin' and we're about to tell him the worst news of his life," he said in a light Texan drawl.

The soldier man grumbled and gnashed his teeth. Charle looked at the Texan man.

"Son…Your father died yesterday in the line of duty. We're sorry."

Charle's eyes opened. "W-what? That's…"

The Texan put a hand on Charle's shoulder. "We know it's hard to bear, son, but rest assured, we'll pay for the f—"

"No, it's impossible! How did he get killed? He's an _executive at a door-to-door salesman company!_ There's no danger in that!" Charle exclaimed.

The Texan and the soldier looked at each other, then back at Charle. "He wasn't honest with you, huh? Guess we'll have to take you to the boss after all."

"Boss? What boss?" Charle's head was swimming with questions. Furthermore he was divided – was his father really dead, or were these two playing some kind of horrible prank on him?

"Get in the car."

Charle noticed the limousine in the street. He whistled in admiration. The limousine had a fine finish to it and shiny wheels, even in the dark of the night. It was definitely something a rich man would buy for himself. The soldier grumbled at his whistle. "Stop admiring it and get into the car!"

He took one long wistful gaze at the vehicle. The solider man growled, and Charle found himself shoved into the limousine and strapped into his seat with the seatbelt. "Slow little bastard," the soldier cursed. The Texan man sat to Charle's left, and the soldier (somewhat grudgingly, Charle suspected) to his right.

"Get us to headquarters, driver," the Texan man said. The driver nodded and obeyed. Charle looked at the Texan man, who maintained a neutral expression that was hardly comforting. He looked at the soldier – _definitely_ not a comforting expression on the older man's face. Charle gulped loudly, as the feeling in the bottom of his stomach made him _know_ something was going to happen.

* * *

He was shoved into the office and heard the slam of the door behind him. Charle looked around meekly, his ears adjusting to just how _quiet_ the place was. The room was small, but still had an air of importance to it. The black desk was the most prominent thing in the room. It was large and had a golden plate (real gold, Charle noted) with the words 'NOAH WASHINGTON, CEO' on it in fine black serif letters. An even larger black chair was behind it, turned to the back wall. Charle inhaled the aroma of expensive cigars by accident and coughed into his wrist. The chair turned around.

"I see you're here, boy. Don't mind my smoking, it's a habit that's hard to break." The speaker was an older man with black hair that was beginning to grey and a crooked nose, likely broken multiple times in many a fight, dressed in a black suit that would have made any man jealous. Charle assumed the man was Noah Washington, the CEO of this 'company' that the building housed. "I'm Noah Washington, CEO of the RED Company. I've got some news to give you, so sit down. You're going to need it."

Charle sat down in a chair identical to the one Mr. Washington was sitting in. "I know about my father. Or, at least, what that Texan guy told me. I don't believe it."

Washington sighed and threw his cigar on his ashtray. "They never do. Listen, let me explain everything…

"Your father was fired from the Good-Werks Sales Company twelve years ago – on your birthday, for that matter. Allegations of stealing sensitive corporate info and selling it to the highest bidder." A smile curled on Washington's face. "Which he did. Very well, might I add. Nobody would've ever known had his _accomplice_ not ratted him out. And we needed somebody with his sense of stealth, quick wit and urgency."

"W-Wait, what kind of company ARE you?" Charle had not even heard of the RED Company before, and that Washington had selected him for _stealth_ smelled a lot like…

"The RED Company pulls the strings behind most of the developed and modern world. We have control of America, England, Spain, Germany, France, Italy, and many other nations. We ensure that nuclear war doesn't break out between countries, lest New York become the next Hiroshima and Washington the next Nagasaki. Everything the President, Congress, and the military do? All us. Sure, we whip up some trouble between countries just to make it seem that somebody's holding the strings, but otherwise nothing major."

Charle wrinkled his nose. "What about the Soviet Union?"

"They're not under our command. The BLU Company has control of them." Washington grimaced as he said 'BLU Company', as if saying the very name made him sick. "It's RED versus BLU. Your father was our top spy."

"Top…spy?" Charle could only echo dumbly at this point. The whole thing seemed like it had waltzed out of a bad spy movie.

"Yes, top spy. He stole BLU's intelligence multiple times and stabbed many a BLU operative in the back." Washington sighed. "But, now he's dead. And despite being a womanizer…the only offspring he ever had was you."

_Oh no. No no no no no no no no._

"Son, I'd like you to take your dad's place in the best group of operatives we have. They'll show you the ropes when you get there. You'll also get your father's salary: 100,000 dollars once every two weeks, bonus if you get BLU intelligence." Washington smiled at Charle. "How about it, kid?"

Charle gulped. A hundred-thousand dollars every two weeks!? He could buy anything he wanted and get mom off his back. "So you want me to become a government spy."

Washington nodded. "Essentially, yes."

"Well…" Charle thought about it for a moment. He would be rich beyond his imagination! Women! Cars! Everything he ever wanted!

"Sure."

Washington beamed at him. "I knew you could do it, kid." He pushed a paper with tiny black print on it and the official seal of the RED Company. "Just sign at the bottom, the legalese just states you're not going to reveal government secrets to the enemy."

Charle eagerly took a pen and signed, grinning like a kid on Christmas. Washington took back the paper. "Congrats, Charle Magnier II. You're in the company now."

* * *

_No regrets, you've got no goals  
Nothing more to learn  
Now I know you won't refuse  
Because we've got so much to do  
And you've got nothing more to lose  
So take this number and welcome to  
Operation : Mindcrime  
We're an underground revolution  
Working overtime  
Operation : Mindcrime  
There's a job for you in  
The system boy, with nothing to sign_

- "Operation Mindcrime", by Queensryche


	2. Locomotive Breath

**To Follow the Rogue**

**By Lilith-Hoshi**

**Chapter Two: Locomotive Breath**

Somehow Charle never expected himself to be on a high-class train with a little room to himself and a view of the countryside as he sped by. But there he was – Charle the Second, sitting on a soft, nice cushioned seat and wondering if he hadn't made the worst mistake of his life four hours ago. Follow the ghost of his father to Arizona, complete with a sunrise. Goddamn, sleep deprivation was hitting him like a motherfucker – he could barely think straight.

Any sane person would've said no. Especially considering what he was getting into. Where he was headed to was a secret intelligence-operations building that was smack-dab in the desert. Except thing is, it wasn't secret anymore.

_"Those BLU bastards built an intelligence center right next to ours so they could intercept our messages. It was supposed to be a temporary structure for a mission of theirs back in '57, but…Well, it's not going down anytime soon."  
_

_"Yeah?"_

_"You, as the spy in an elite team of nine specialists, must work to get whatever intelligence they've got in their building, and make sure they get their hands off ours. Clear?"_

_"Crystal."_

_"Another thing. Your father was murdered by a BLU spy – a ruthless traitor to the States that was feeding information to the Soviets. We nearly nabbed him for it in a trial, but before we could execute him, he made a deal with the devil and got BLU operatives to bust him out. His name…"_

Vincent Toussaint. Charle couldn't help but keep the name in his head. It echoed in his brain and taunted him. It said, "I killed your father, boy, and I'll kill you too."

Still, it's not like he was…upset. He barely knew his father, after all. It's not like he was…

_

* * *

_

_-Yay, daddy, you're home!_

_His father came in with a big white paper bag. That meant daddy had gone to the store._

_-Hey kid, how are you?_

_-Daddy!_

_He ran to his daddy and gave him a big hug. Daddy laughed and smiled._

_-I got you a present, Charle._

_-What is it?_

_Daddy pulled a big toy car from the white paper bag._

_-Wow, daddy! That's exactly what I wanted!_

_He gave his father a squeeze. Daddy laughed again._

-_Come on, dad, let's go ride the elephant!_

_A big hand took his little one, and he heard his father chuckle._

_-I don't think your mother would appreciate it._

_-That's why it'll be fun! Come on, dad!_

_Another chuckle._

_-Alright son, but you owe me._

_Alright son, but you owe…_

_Alright son, but you owe me…_

* * *

Fucking son of a bitch.

Was he really crying? He brushed the stream of tears off his face. Eighteen years old and Charle was blubbering like a fucking baby. He tried to focus on the real dad – the one that had betrayed his family and ran off to play good spy, bad spy. The bastard that had lied to him and his mother for twelve whole goddamn years. Charle the First, may he rot in his goddamn grave.

Better now. He felt angry instead of sad. Now he wanted to snap a neck.

Then the door to his room slid open suddenly, and Charle nearly screamed. A black-haired man in a long white overcoat poked his head into the room. Charle blinked as he watched the man push his glasses back up his nose. They looked at each other for a moment.

"Ach…Sorry, must be te wrong room," the man said. Charle frowned.

"Don't you mean 'the'?"

"Ach, your crazy language. I never got te hang of te… 'tay-hah' sound. In Deutsch, ve say 'tay-hah' like English say letter 'tee'." The man scratched his nose for a long, awkward moment. "Oh vell. I am called Dietrich Schwarz. Pleased to meet you." He bowed a bit, pushing his arm to his side like he was holding a hat in his hand. Charle nearly rolled his eyes at the formality. To mess with him, Charle shrugged his shoulders and looped his arms around the back of his head to rest on his hands.

"Name's Charle. Charle Magnier…the Second," he added. Charle never did understand why his father insisted on tacking 'the Second' onto his son's name, rather than put 'Junior' like _normal people_ did. Of course, considering what his dad did behind his back for twelve years, Charle had to wonder whether his father was normal after all.

"Ah! You're Magnier's son!" Dietrich smiled. "I tought you look like him. But you have much more pimples."

Charle had to keep himself from launching himself at the German and clawing his goddamn eyes out. It was one thing to get scared by a German, another to play language advisor to said German, but when the German insulted his acne problem like all of the other kids in high school that thought they were so _fucking clever_ when they made fun of his acne…

"Yeah. Whatever. So, what do you do?"

"Oh, I am te _dok-ter_," Dietrich said, pronouncing each syllable strangely. Charle guessed he meant 'doctor'. "I fix te vounds, burns, and te like." The German scratched his nose again. "Itchy nose, today. Don't know vhy."

Charle didn't care. "So, are you headed to Arizona?" _Please say no._

"Ja! Te rest of te team ist on board, as vell," Dietrich said cheerily. _Fuck!_ Charle thought. He sighed.

"Okay. Where's the rest of the team?" he asked. Might as well know the people he'd be working with.

Dietrich pointed to his left. "Oh, tey are over tere."

"Thanks." _Go to hell._ Charle got up and walked out of the room, leaving the German behind him. He walked down a bit further until he reached a door marked 'Lounge' on it. Charle opened the door and saw the room was completely painted light red. There were two sofas and a wooden table between them. On one sofa, to the left of Charle, sat a big man eating a sandwich. Much to Charle's disgust, bologna slathered with the slime of ketchup and mustard mingled together was slowly slipping out of the slabs of bread. Charle was never much of a sandwich person – and watching the gigantic man eating his lunch reminded him why. Quickly he looked at the man sitting next to him – a much lankier man with short hair, a five o'clock shadow on his face, and polishing his rifle with the grimace of a man bred to kill. Immediately Charle knew not to fuck with him, and just as quickly looked to the next one on the sofa, whom he recognized as the Texan man with the strange goggles. Opposite to him on the other sofa was the old soldier, still wearing his old helmet.

"…The kids these days are spitting in _my _face. I go and lob a few grenades into some priceless buildings that were built centuries ago to make sure none of the goddamned Nazis got a hold of the Statue of Liberty and rape her. What do the youth do? They waste themselves with drugs and alcohol and listen to that Jethro Tull shit while humping anything with reproductive organs. And here I have such a _fine example_ of youth today!" The soldier pointed a finger not at Charle, but at a skinny kid his age with a baseball cap on his head, a white wifebeater shirt, and baggy pants that seemed to be trying to compensate for something. _Probably a small dick._

"Just cause I'm having a good time doesn't mean ya gotta stop me, man. Happiness is the key, they say." The kid looked around and took a seat next to the sandwich-eating giant, apparently a risk-taker. "We got any pop? Or some booze?"

"Goddamnit, I ought to just save myself some trouble and strangle you in your sleep. Little shithead." The old soldier got up. "Where the fuck is Archie?"

The big man piped up, actually pausing between chews. "No clue! Steals all booze for himself," he said in a heavy Russian accent, and resumed eating his disgusting sandwich. Charle nearly groaned. Here he was, on a train to Arizona with a fucking _Soviet,_ a medic who couldn't speak English, a crabby old soldier, a delinquent kid, a Texan with freakish goggles, and an alcoholic named Archie. _Ooh, big money, Charle! Just have to deal with all of society's rejects!_

"JESUS ON 'IS CROSS, IT'S AE GHOST!"

Charle looked at the black man in the doorway behind him, a bottle in one hand and an eyepatch over his left eye with a black bandana that obscured his head. "It's ae goddamn ghost!" He tumbled towards Charle drunkenly and slammed him to the floor.

"Watch it, you son of a bitch!" Charle growled, and he shoved the black man off him. He stood up and dusted off his shirt, only to realize how silent the room was. He looked up and saw everyone's attention was on him.

"Uh…hi."

A moment of silence. Then the Texan man clapped and started to laugh. "A chip off the old block, if I do say so myself…Welcome aboard, Charle Magnier – the Second."

The black man looked at Charle in surprise, stunned. "Yae dun mean to tell meh that this is Charle, mark two?" He took a swig of his bottle, then stared intently at Charle with drunken eyes. Charle stared back. The black man laughed. "'E's Charle's boy! Got the goddamn eyes, even! If I dint know better, I'da think it was a clone!" He lumbered to the sofa the old soldier sat on and hopped on the cushions, resting his body lazily. Charle raised a brow. He would've taken a seat, but since the rest of the couch was taken by a drunk Scottish black man – did those even _exist?_ – Charle decided standing wasn't that bad of a fate.

"So, Charle," the Texan man began, "I figure we should introduce ourselves. I'm Tim Johnson, graduate of Texas University's engineering program – the very best in this country."

The old soldier huffed. "Goddamn Longhorn. I'm Marcus Steele, an Aggie. I bleed maroon. You don't believe it? Try me." He tipped his old helmet down his face. "Veteran of Double-You-Double-You-Two. That's World War II for dipshits, like Carl over there."

"Hey, you can shove it, assclown," the kid retorted. He looked at Charle. "I'm Carl Donner. Don't fuck with me, and I won't fuck with you. Got it?"

"Yae know yae like it up the arse, Donner!" the black man said, laughing at his own joke like a loon. "Ae'm Archie Hancock, demoman. Ae blow stuff up."

"I Vladimir Novikov! I heavy weapons guy!" the Soviet chimed in. _I wasn't asking you, you goddamn Commie,_ Charle nearly said, but then realized he wasn't really asking anything. "And dat is Benji McNoughton next to me!" Vladimir added, pointing to the man polishing his rifle. Benji merely grunted in response.

"Have you met Dietrich yet, Charle?" Tim asked. Charle nodded.

"Yeah. He came into my room by accident."

"That's him, alright. Has a bad sense of direction," Tim said with a smile. Charle kind of grinned in return.

"I do not," said a voice behind Charle. Dietrich came into the room grinning, much to Charle's surprise. Maybe the German had a sense of humor?

"Yeah you do! You went into the BLU fort when it was nighttime and ceasefire was called!"

"Ceasefire?" Charle raised a brow. He hadn't heard about this. Dietrich nodded.

"Ja, vhenever we do an operation, we go into the oter fort and retrieve intelligence, oftentimes with the BLU team dead, or they surrender. Sometimes neiter side has intelligence when an operation – either BLU or RED called – happens, so we call ceasefire. Tat vas one time…And I tought tat te door was _our _door, _danke_ _schön_!" Dietrich laughed heartily, as did the rest of the team, minus Benji.

Charle grinned. _Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad._ "So when are we arriving in Arizona?"

"Four more hours. Go take a nap or something, kid," Marcus said. "You're going to wish you had later, believe me."

_Oh god, a nap._ That sounded heavenly to Charle at the moment, even if he was going to sleep on a train. "Yeah…Thanks for the introductions. Bye guys."

"Bye little Charle!" yelled the Russian man after Charle as he turned to leave. He walked down the hallway to a chorus of "Bye!" from the room. He rubbed his eyes and grinned.

Maybe, maybe it wasn't going to be so bad.

He opened the door to his room and walked in. He laid himself down on the cushioned seat and curled up in the most comfortable position he could've possibly gone to sleep in.

Soon sleep came to him.

* * *

_'Charle…'_

_Charle woke up to a field of flowers with bright sunlight in his eyes. God, it was bright. It blinded him temporarily – he had to put a hand over his eyes so he could recover his eyesight. The sky was so blue! There was wind in his hair and a song in the breeze: it said to him that he was happy, he was free, he was a child again._

_'Charle…'_

'_Daddy!' Charle looked up to see his father's face smiling at him. He gave his dad a big hug and giggled. 'Where've you been, daddy?'_

'_I was gone a little while, son. How are you? How have you been?'_

'_I missed you, daddy.'_

'_I missed you too, son. Listen…'_

_The sky grew dark, and the flowers suddenly wilted. The ground turned to mud – it pulled Charle's feet down, slowly. His father leaned to his ear and whispered…_

**'_I am the god of my own history.'_**

* * *

_In the shuffling madness  
__Of the locomotive breath  
__Runs the all-time loser  
__Headlong to his death  
__Oh, he feels the piston scraping  
__Steam breaking on his brow  
__Old Charlie stole the handle,  
__And the train, it won't stop going  
__No way to slow down_

-"Locomotive Breath", Jethro Tull

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Author's Notes: Hi, I wanted to make a note about Dietrich's accent. I decided to go with a less stereotypical TF2-esque German accent, as it is not the Germans that pronounce the 'th' sound as a 'z' sound – that's the French, actually (and probably a few other native speakers of other languages). Germans, however, do have troubles with the 'th' sound when they first learn English, as in German, when a word is spelled with a 'th', it just sounds like a hard 't' – like 'Mathe', which is 'math', but pronounced 'mah-tuh'. If there are any native German speakers who want to correct this, as I get my knowledge from my German teacher (but I'm only in German I thus far), then by all means go ahead – I love linguistics.

Also, yes, I do love Jethro Tull. I'm a flutist and guitarist. I can't help but love Ian Anderson. :P


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